


The Space Between

by BoxOnTheNile



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Genderfluid Locus, Genderqueer Caboose, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Trans Dick Simmons, also skirts, it's gender bullshit and crying, oh yeah that too, that's literally it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 21:49:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16026659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxOnTheNile/pseuds/BoxOnTheNile
Summary: “It’s anidentitything, I think,” Locus says. He’s been piecing together how to say this for days. “It’s something I did Before.”“Before?”“Before Locus,” Locus says, then frowns. No, wait, that needs explained, what does he need to say?But Grif nods. “Back when you were whoever you were before you started Dissociation: Nightmare Mode.” Simmons chokes. “What? I’m right.”“He’s right,” Locus agrees. The joke has loosened something in his chest and it makes it easier. “Part of what makes it sodifficultis I don’t… remember how to be them.”“So don’t,” Simmons says. Locus stares blankly. “Don’t be them? Figure out how to do it as Locus, not…. whatever your name used to be.”





	The Space Between

**Author's Note:**

> So last week my good good friend grayscaleTestimony said "what if genderfluid locus?" and I came sprinting into the discord like "why yes u called?"
> 
> also this was supposed to be pwp. it is 3.8k of character study instead. h o w.
> 
> Anyway, shoutout to gray and Anasten for being cheerleaders, ilusm.
> 
> Locus changes pronouns pretty regularly bc _mood_

* * *

 

_there is a space between the breaking and the reborn_

_-Emery Allen, Soft Human_

 

* * *

 

Locus sees the skirt first while they’re chasing a bounty through the streets of an urban colony at four am. The mark is pathetically easy to detain and turn in, and for once Locus doesn’t immediately wire everything they’re paid to the Chorus Relief Fund. Instead, they double back and stare through the shop window until finally mustering up the courage to step inside. They leave with lighter pockets and paper bag full of dark green chiffon.

They wait until A’rynasea is in deep space, taking them back to Reprise, to try it on. The fabric sways airily around their legs. They’ve haven’t worn a skirt in so long it feels like pretending, so they strip it off quickly and throw it in a heap in one of A’rynasea’s storage closets. 

They come back later to hang it up.

They come back a little later and bury their face in it. 

They wonder what Grif and Simmons will think of it. Felix(and it doesn't hurt to think of him anymore) had never questioned when Locus wore things like that, and Locus lost count of the times they'd fucked with a dress or skirt rucked up around their hips.

It's one of the few things they miss.

It’s the middle of the night when they make it home, so they slip silently in through the back door and straight to their room. Grif stirs. “Bug?”

Locus is slowly adjusting to the feeling of softness and warmth these men inspire in them. “It's me.”

Grif hums and nudges Simmons. “Sims, scoot. Locus is home.” 

A soft red light appears as Simmons opens his eyes. “Welcome home,” he mumbles. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” they say, finally untangling from the kevlar survival suit. They don't wear armor much anymore, but bounty hunting is still dangerous. They should shower or find pants or do really anything other than drop face first on the bed in their boxers and sleep for twelve hours, but they don't. 

Instead, they drop face first on the bed in their boxers and let Grif manhandle them until they're in the middle with someone they love on either side. 

In the morning, it's like they were never gone, the rest of the Reds and Blues folding them neatly back into their dynamic. “Shenanigans,” Wash had called it once, understanding in his eyes. Washington knew the overwhelming feeling of these men's forgiveness as well as Locus. 

They go to Donut. They figure he's the least likely to mock them and the most likely to actually help. 

They pull him aside after breakfast. “I want to wear skirts again.”

Donut throws his arms around their neck. “Of course! I'm sure Kai has a few you can borrow until we can order you a few more-”

“No,” Locus cuts him off. “I have one. I-” They look for the words they want, can't find them. 

“You felt like you were pretending,” Donut says. When Locus looks surprised, he smiles. “Gendered clothing is fake, I have my own dresses. And in the beginning, I felt that way, too. Did you start small?”

Locus thinks of dark green chiffon. “No.”

“Let's check Kai's closet. She's not as tall as you, but her hips are about the same as yours, and she won't mind. She’s busy on Chorus most of the time, anyway.” 

They leave in a black cotton peasant skirt. It's heavier than the skirt still hidden away in A'rynasea, but somehow it's better. It still feels like faking, a little, but this time they can hear Megan's voice in their head. _“You can't fake the person you are.”_

Donut pulls them by the hand through the kitchen, talking loudly about getting everything from A'rynasea unpacked and put away. 

Locus hears Grif cut off in the middle of a sentence and when they glance at him, he looks dumbstruck. The skirt doesn’t even _fit_ correctly, stopping several inches above the ankle and Locus couldn’t tell you the last time they shaved under threat of death, but Grif is looking at them like they’re the only thing in the universe.

Then Donut leads them out the back door and across the grass into A’rynasea. Her lights turn rose in greeting before dimming except for one bright light over Locus. 

“Don’t they look great?” Donut asks excitedly, and the light over them turns green, then gold. “Locus, did you see Grif’s face? Did you see _Simmons_? They both looked like they were going to drag you back to your room and duck under that skirt.”

That image flashes across their brain: of Grif tossing the hem of a skirt(green, chiffon) over his head, the fabric draping delicately across his shoulders as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to Locus’s thighs; of Simmons fussing until he gave up and tucked the hem into Locus’s hands with a grin and reached for the waistband of their underwear-

“You saw them,” Donut says smugly, and Locus snaps out of it.

“I saw Grif,” they admit. “I- I don’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that.” Like something precious. 

“I don’t blame him,” Donut sighs. “I kinda want under that skirt.”

“Please do not.”

Donut waves them off. “I wouldn’t, not without permission, and you don’t like me.”

“I like you,” Locus protests. They do; they consider Donut one of the few friends they still have.

They follow Donut into the tiny living space, where he strides straight towards one of the closets with the intent to take all Locus’s spare clothing and bring it to the laundry. Locus remembers _exactly what is in there_ and moves to stop him, but the damage is done, and the little dignity Locus has left shrivels and dies.

“That’s not starting small at all,” Donut says softly. He reaches out, but stops. “May I?” Locus nods once, and Donut runs his fingertips along soft green fabric. “Oh, Locus, baby, when did you get this?”

“Yesterday,” Locus tells him. “I shouldn’t have, it was frivolous and selfish and-”

“Absolutely stunning?” Donut interrupts. Locus's heart skips. “It’s okay to be selfish sometimes, Locus.”

They refrain from telling him they’ve been selfish for twelve years, that they’re _still_ selfish, that every time they come back to this little house on the moon they’re serving no one but themself and this was just one more way they’ve grabbed for things they don’t deserve. Instead, they say, “Not for me.”

Donut fixes them with a withering glare. “Now listen here, mister.” A pause. “Is ‘mister’ okay?” When Locus nods again, he points. “Listen here, mister. This? Doesn’t hurt anyone. This is actually going to make several people very happy. Me, for one, because I get to see you in chiffon. Tucker, because he’s going to get ideas and try to cajole Wash into a dress, probably. And _especially_ Grif and Simmons, because they love you, and this will make you happy. Okay?”

“Okay,” Locus repeats obediently. Donut points at them a little while longer, then scoops the rest of the neatly folded clothing out of the closet and dumps it into Locus’s arms.

 

* * *

 

The second day back home, Locus pulls the blankets up over her head and stays there the whole day. When Simmons checks up on her, she says “dysphoria,” and he makes a soft sound of sympathy. 

He gets it. Every one of the “Trans Team” has days where it’s bad enough they hate themselves a little. 

Besides, Locus needed to catch up on sleep anyway, might as well do it through depression naps.

 

* * *

 

The third day Locus has flipped right back into masculine and lets Sarge drag him into typical Red Team Shenanigans. Wash and Carolina are similarly corralled into Blue Team Shenanigans, and both shenanigans come to a head with Caboose throwing Grif into the ocean and Simmons rallying to his boyfriend's defense. Tucker goes after Locus, and they're both well matched after weeks and weeks of sparring together, but Locus gets the upper hand and drags him screaming into the waves. It's _fun_ , and Locus still clings to goodness like this with all his might, like he's afraid to lose it. They all track back inside dripping wet and laughing. 

Grif and Simmons drag him into the shower with them, and, really, it's too small for three grown men, but they manage. Simmons insists on washing Locus’s hair for him, and he's tall enough to actually reach.

He used to have to sit on the floor for Felix. He didn't mind, but this is nice, too, leaning against Grif's side as Simmons runs his nails lightly over his scalp. And if Locus slides to his knees after, throws one of Simmons's legs over his shoulder and eats him out while Grif covers his mouth to keep him quiet, well. That's no one's business but their own.

 

* * *

 

Donut tucks a package into his hands a week later and grins. Locus has a guess on what it is, so he retreats to ‘Nasea and tears it open. His breath catches at the dress inside. His hands tremble as he holds it against his body; A'rynasea turns the wall in front of him reflective.

His next exhale is shaky- the dress is loose and flowing, the sleeves loose ruffles that would fall nearly to his elbow. The whole thing is dark green and simple and Locus hasn't been soft enough for something this lovely in a long, long time. 

“Locus? Are you in here, you took off really fast-” Grif steps into the living space as Locus whips around. He looks between the dress Locus clutches to his chest to his eyes, wide and shining with unshed tears, and nods a little. “Gender thing, got it. Want me to go get Simmons? Or give you a hug? Or just, uh. Anything?”

“I don't know,” Locus whispers. “I don't think I remember how- how to do this anymore.”

“Well, I assume first you have to put it on,” Grif says. “If you want. If not, you could hang it up and we could wrap in blankets and watch Battlestar Galactica until your gender stops being shitty to you.”

The laugh Locus makes is wet and anxious. “I don't know what I want.”

“You wanna cry for a bit? I won't tell anyone, even though we all know you're a huge dork at this point.”

Simmons comes looking for them a few minutes later and finds Grif sitting on the tiny cot, Locus cross-legged on the floor and crying silently into Grif's lap while he stroked his hair. The dress is still in Locus's hands, now crumpled and creased.

Simmons kneels on the floor next to Locus and gently pries the dress from his hands. “This is a big deal for you, isn't it, Bug?”

Locus's shoulders hitch with a quiet sob. When was the last time he cried? Years ago, before Felix died.

Locus wishes Felix was here, almost, for just a second. Felix, who knew how to deal with this better than Locus did, absurdly. Knew the right things to say to make him feel okay in his own stupid body. Knew when to brush his hair back and call him pretty, perfect, stunning, even _cute_. The right words at the right time. 

“Bug?” Simmons tucks a strand of Locus's hair behind his ear. “I know you're bad at words but you gotta tell us how to help.”

But he can't, because _he_ doesn't know, so instead he grabs for Simmons's hand and holds it until he's cried himself out.

(Afterwards, they head back inside long enough to gather every spare blanket in the house, drag it all back out to build a nest in A’rynasea, and watch Battlestar Galactica on Grif's tablet until they fall asleep. ‘Nasea seals the door and adjusts the temperature to a human ideal.) 

 

* * *

 

It takes another week for Locus to wear a skirt again- the same black peasant skirt borrowed from Kai's closet. This time, Tucker chases them down for a picture to send to Kaikaina herself. She responds with a long string of eyes, water droplets, and eggplant emojis.

_**SIS:** but real talk they are *so gorgeous* show them this text tkr_

‘Gorgeous’ bounces around their head for the rest of the day. It's _good_ , and Locus tries to wrap the feeling up and hold it close to their heart like it could heal the scars they put there.

_“This is a big deal for you, isn't it?”_

It shouldn't be. It wasn't, before- Sam Ortez had been seen many times in sundresses and strappy sandals _in public_ , but it was different then. With Megan and Mason backing them up and Isaac at their side, Sam had been comfortable. Had been _happy_.

Locus didn't have that backup. Or, they did, but it wasn't… wasn't right. Wasn't the same. With the Reds and Blues, they were _sexy_ \- dark and dangerous. 

They missed being _pretty_.

They put words to it with Caboose- Caboose is easy to explain it to, he knows the way gender works nebulously and distant for Locus because it's that way for him, too, and he's patient when words fail them.

“Do you miss _pretty_ ,” Caboose asks, “or do you miss how Felix made you feel?”

Locus thinks about that. “Oh.”

“You loved him,” Caboose says. He's the only one that never dances around that fact. “And he made you feel important when you felt bad and it's okay to miss that.”

“He never questioned why someone like me would want to feel…” They can't find the word.

“Soft?” Caboose offers. “I like feeling soft sometimes. It's why I have so many sweaters. Do you want to wear one?”

Locus considers. “Yes.”

Caboose is bigger than Locus, insanely, so the blue sweater they wrap up in hangs past their hips and just barely over their hands. Caboose is right, it does make Locus feel… not _soft_ , really, but different. 

They feel like _Sam_ for a minute and almost cry again. They don't actually know if it's a good feeling. 

 

* * *

 

Simmons drops into Locus lap, taking the tablet from him so he can't keep checking active bounties. “So I don't get it,” Simmons says, “but that's probably because my dad is shitty and dresses make me super dysphoric.”

Oh, okay. They're talking about this. Locus was under the impression Grif and Simmons didn't talk about things, just silently changed their behavior little by little until they liked the reactions they got from each other.

“But it's important to you,” Simmons continues, “and obviously something needs to change somewhere because you're hiding it from us until you break and I don't-” He stops, frowns, doesn't look Locus in the eye. “I didn't like how that felt, knowing you couldn't trust me with that.”

“It's…” Locus sighs. “Complicated.”

“Complicated as in ‘it takes a while to explain’ or complicated as in ‘you don’t understand it yourself’?”

“Both.” Simmons stares at him expectantly. “It involves Felix.”

“We need to. To talk about that, too, I think. Eventually.”

“ _I_ think,” Locus says, “that everyone in this relationship needs to be involved if we’re actually having this conversation.”

“Yeah, probably.” Simmons slides out of his lap and pads from the room. There’s a sudden scream of “Simmons, what the fuck?” and he returns dragging Grif by the shirt. 

“What was that about?” Grif whines.

“We’re talking.”

“We couldn’t do that without making me get up?”

“We’re not talking about this with _everyone_.”

“Do we have to talk at all?”

“ _Yes_ , Grif, it’s important, and important conversations always suck.”

“What are we even talking about?” Grif sits on the floor. “C’mere, no relationship conversation should feel formal.”

“This isn’t formal, it’s a bedroom,” Simmons huffs, but he sits and leans back against the bed. Locus slides down next to him. “So, uh, is it a clothes thing or a gender thing? The. The, uh.”

“It’s an _identity_ thing, I think,” Locus says. He’s been piecing together how to say this for days. “It’s something I did Before.”

“Before?”

“Before Locus,” Locus says, then frowns. No, wait, that needs explained, what does he need to say?

But Grif nods. “Back when you were whoever you were before you started Dissociation: Nightmare Mode.” Simmons chokes. “What? I’m right.”

“He’s right,” Locus agrees. The joke has loosened something in his chest and it makes it easier. “Part of what makes it so _difficult_ is I don’t… remember how to be them.”

“So don’t,” Simmons says. Locus stares blankly. “Don’t be them? Figure out how to do it as Locus, not…. whatever your name used to be.” He searches Locus’s face, then smirks, chest puffing out with pride. “Didn’t even think of that, did you? Damn, that’s good, I’m telling that to Tucker.”

“What do you mean you’re telling Tucker?” Locus asks.

“Sims and Tucker trade ‘batman villain rehabilitation’ tips,” Grif says. Simmons tackles him to floor screeching about how he ‘promised not to tell’, and Locus decides the conversation is probably over.

 

* * *

 

Locus pops their head in Caboose’s room a few days later. They have an idea. “Caboose, can I borrow a sweater?”

“Yes!” he says, delighted. Locus grabs one they’d noticed the other day, thanks him, and heads straight to A’rynasea. 

The chiffon is airy, nearly brushing the ground. They meet the gaze of their reflection and roll their shoulders back. “Locus,” they whisper, “not Sam.” They turn sharply and- _oh._

_It does the Thing._

And they turn several quick spins as the skirt flares out and suddenly nothing is so daunting as they’d made it out to be.

There’s another playful argument at the breakfast table when they enter the kitchen that just stops. Utter silence stretches for several seconds before Donut breaks it with an ecstatic shriek. Tucker flings himself from his chair yelling about Kaikaina and pictures, Wash scrambling to stop him. Sarge is dumbstruck, Carolina is grinning, and Caboose says, happily, “you're so cute!”

Locus glances down at the sweater they borrowed- dark grey, speckled in little white stars, and just barely too big. “Thank you.”

“Does this mean we're not sparring today?” Carolina asks, but it's teasing. 

“It does come off,” they say.

“I hope so, because damn!” Wash has dragged Tucker back into his seat, but he's still _Tucker_. “It's like a goddamn _present._ ”

“Back off my datemate,” Simmons warns. Next to him, Grif stands.

“Nope, Tuck's right.” Grif stalks across the room, hooks his elbow with Locus's without breaking stride, and starts pulling them back out the door to A'rynasea. 

Donut and Tucker start catcalling. There's the sound of a slap, followed by an indignant “Ow, Wash!”

Locus fights a smile and lets Grif lead them back into A'rynasea’s living quarters, lets him drag them down into a heated kiss. “‘Nasea, baby,” Grif says when they break for air, “don't let anyone but Simmons in.” The lights dim, just a little. “Is that a yes?”

“That's a yes,” Locus tells him, and kisses him again. Grif pushes them back until they hit the cot and lose their balance, dropping onto it. “What are you…?”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Grif says, and yanks his hands back from where he was toying with the hem of their sweater. “Is this okay?”

“What is ‘this’?”

“My plan was to suck you off under the skirt.”

Heat blooms in Locus's stomach. “That sounds amenable.”

“Too a big a word for yes,” Grif says, and sinks to his knees. He flashes Locus a cheeky grin, then tosses the skirt over his head. “Oh my _god,_ ” he groans, and Locus laughs quietly. They expected this to happen at some point today, so they skipped on underwear altogether. 

The light flashes green briefly, and Simmons steps into the room the same second Grif gets his mouth on Locus's cock. They groan, head tipping back, and Simmons hisses, “Fuck, Grif, you took my idea.”

Grif doesn't reply, just takes Locus further into his mouth, _shit shit shit_. 

It's better than they could ever fantasize, because they never took into account _their other boyfriend_. A mistake that will rectified next time, because there can't be anything in the galaxy hotter than “How long's the male refractory period? Half an hour? We can wait that long, right?”

Grif pulls off slow and Locus bites back a whimper. “If it only takes them half an hour to bounce back I'm not doing my job right.”

“When do you ever?” Simmons snarks. “Better just let me do it.”

“Oh, then we'll be here all day.” 

_“Grif,”_ Locus says sharply. 

“Fuck, that's the scary voice.” But Grif doesn't sound scared, he sounds breathless. “Fuck that's hot. Fuck.” And he swallows them back down.

Locus gasps, one hand dropping to grab Grif’s hair, but their fingers skitter over fabric instead. Grif chuckles and it vibrates through their hips and this is going to be over embarrassingly soon if he _keeps doing that with his tongue_ -

Simmons catches their other hand and threads their fingers together, because Locus said once that they liked something to hold onto during sex. He _remembered_ that, Locus thinks, like Grif remembers they don’t like pain and they both remember Locus’s preferences in tea because they _love_ them. Simmons lifts their joined hands to his lips and whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”

_Beautiful._

_There was the word they needed._

Their hips jerk as they come, and Grif sucks through it. He emerges from the skirt with a smug look, licking his lips.

“Did you _swallow_?” Simmons asks.

“Yup. Kinda regret it.”

“Water bottles in the galley,” Locus says. They’re still floating on endorphins a little, _beautiful_ looping through their head like a music track on repeat. It’s better than music. 

Grif presses a kiss to their forehead. “Let us know when you’re back from orbit, Bug.” He pulls Simmons in for a real kiss, leaving him sputtering and swearing, and ducks out of the room to find a water bottle. He comes back with two and sets one on the cot next to Locus. “You’re blissed the fuck out, never seen you do this. See what I did, Simmons? I made them feel that damn good.”

“Stop that.” They’re coming back down, and they feel settled in their skin in a way they haven’t since they bought the skirt. “No arguing in A’rynasea.”

“That’s not a rule,” Simmons says.

“It is now,” Locus tells him. “You realize everyone knows what we just did.”

“I have blackmail,” Grif says. “Drink your water.”

“Make me,” Locus says, but they’re already breaking the seal. Simmons snorts.

“We’re a fucking mess,” he says, grinning. “We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“I could eat _something_.” Grif waggles his eyebrows, and Simmons throws the cap of Locus’s water bottle at him. All three of them start snickering like children.

The fabric of the skirt brushes against their ankles. It doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> did u know writing locus genderfluid helped me figure out im genderfluid? crazy.
> 
> [this](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0246/7229/products/1_1f7a79a5-141d-4fe5-ac95-10df99eff752.jpg?v=1481745761) is _the_ skirt.


End file.
